A New Life
by poi922
Summary: "… we imagine at this point, we will find our heroes after they've settled a little bit into the life that Root has set up for them." - Jonathan Nolan, on S4. This will surely be AU in S4, but is currently my version of John's new life. Post S3, Pre S4; POV "Reese" (Check out "Another Life" for Finch's new life)
1. Chapter 1

Whoever named this Big Sky country sure had it right. Nowhere else could a terrain with such a vast expanse of clear blue skies and gently rolling hills make a person feel so humbled by beauty that owed nothing to humans. And so trivial and insignificant.

Well, maybe the Gobi Desert… though considering his job at that time he'd had little appreciation for any of the landscapes around him.

_I'm surprised you ended up in New York City; thought you'd get a cabin in the woods…_

Reese sighs, dropping his gaze and closing the door to the ancient pickup…as always, not too hard since the glass rattles in the frame at the slightest of jarring. He rolls his shoulders and stretches, slowly working the stiffness out of his back.

While the old truck sports an engine that runs - and sounds - like a Singer sewing machine, its shocks joined the window weather stripping in auto heaven long ago, leaving a ride akin to that of a springless buckboard. Pulled by a pair of camels.

Driving over a miles long chessboard of potholes along with yesterdays work schedule has done a number on his back muscles, with the ache in his side and leg reminding him of the scar tissue still embroidered on the skin.

He scans his surroundings. The town is almost deserted, though that's not unusual. The community's 200+ souls have to work hard to stay above the poverty line in this area, with most of its residents laboring dawn to dusk on nearby ranches and game preserves.

Still, he automatically makes note of the three vehicles parked outside the Café &amp; Saloon, the saddled horse tied to the post by the drug store - dozing as it swishes its tail to ward off the ever present flies - and a dog of an indeterminate breed scratching its fleas outside the barber shop.

Quiet. Just like it should be. Just like he likes it. Really.

In fact, the only time the place shows any big city activity is during its few yearly events. Like the Art Walk in summer. The Gopher Hunt in fall. And the yearly Spring Roundup…a three day event that draws tourists like flies to manure, some of whom pay dearly for the privilege of participating in a drive to herd horses from their winter pastures in the hills to nearby Mantle Ranch.

The events fill the local hotel and strain the dining capacity at the small Café &amp; Saloon, bringing in the outside world with cell phones and cameras. Reporters. He always makes certain to stay out of town during those times.

Stepping off the sidewalk into the feed store he removes his sunglasses, taking a quick step to the right - out of the line of sight in the doorway – and casually surveys the large room. No windows. Back door is closed. Three people, plus the proprietor. Two workers he recognizes, the other a senior citizen he knows lives at the hotel.

This is a new life…but old habits die hard.

_Sooner or later both of us will probably wind up dead…_

"Well, John! Haven't seen you here for a while. What's it been? A month or so?" The storekeeper waves at him from the cash register counter, his shock of white hair a beacon in the dusky interior. "Gabe doing OK?"

"He's fine." The ex-op replies, walking to the counter. Pulling a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket he hands it to the older man. "Busy with a foaling right now."

"Hurrmph. That old geezer should retire! Get his kids out of the big city and come help run that place." He quickly scans the list. "Good thing you came along. He needed some one with younger muscles to help with the chores."

"Don't think his kids are interested. And he's stubborn."

The shopkeeper chuckles. "You got that right! The place is barely keeping him in groceries, but I suspect he'll die on that ranch." He waves the paper at John and says, "I'll have this put together in a jiff."

Then turning, he shouts at the back door. "Joey! Need some help here!"

Reese watches as the battered door opens and reveals the shop owners twenty-something son, the young man's almond shaped eyes, flat profile, and thick neck disclosing his genetic condition. He braces himself.

From their first meeting the boy…man…had for some unfathomable reason taken an instant liking to the ex-agent. Had thrown his arms around the taller man like greeting a long lost friend. The shopkeeper's worried expression only slowly dispelled when John merely accepted the embrace and then gently pried himself loose with a few soft words.

The relief on the fathers face at the time was a sad testimony that not all strangers readily accepted his son's condition with such compassion.  
And from that day forward, John had a friend for life.

So now he calmly awaits the customary hug. This time however, the young man merely smiles, waving cheerfully at John as he comes forward to accept the scribbled note. Reese waves back.

"The wire is in the shed, the T-posts outside," the father instructs. "And don't forget to put on your gloves." The older man watches as his son walks with purpose to the back door.

Then turning back to Reese, "So you're building more fences. Wouldn't think Gabe could invest any more money in the place till later this year. I know he's got some yearlings to sell, but that's a ways off yet."

"He's doing fine."

The shopkeeper shakes his head. "Pigheaded old man. I'll add this to his tab, but he's got to know there's going to have to be a limit on how long I can carry him."

Reese nods and pulling out a wallet from his well worn jeans, replies, "Not a problem. I've got the money for the fencing. And a payment on the tab."

He hopes the man won't question how an old rancher with an uncertain income can now suddenly pay several thousand dollars on a long standing debt. But if he does, well, Reese knows he's very adept at convincingly lying through his teeth.

_I know they encouraged a certain moral flexibility when you worked at the CIA, but I like to think we're reaching for a higher standard..._

"Well, now! That's good. That's good," replies the silver haired shop owner with a smile, accepting the large wad of bills. His eyes are speculative, but he says only, "Come back to the office and I'll get you a receipt."

Rounding the counter he leads the way to the back of the store, Reese following silently behind, past the horse halters, the dog paraphernalia, the various pest products and bags of fertilizer. Past a sign marked "Postal Service" and into a small office containing a single desk, a file cabinet, and cardboard containers of various sizes.

"Sorry. Can't offer you a seat. Only have room for one chair here, now that the postal delivery just came."

He slides around the desk and lowers himself into the chair, one that Reese calculates has probably been around since the state joined the Union.

"Sure used to be nice when we had regular postal service. Now everyone has to come in here to get their deliveries. Or at least those that don't fit in the letter box."

Opening a desk drawer the older man pulls out a small pad and starts filling out the receipt. "So should I make it out to Gabe…or you?" he asks, throwing a shrewd glance at the rancher's normally taciturn employee.

But there's no answer. The man before him is staring at the wall behind the desk, a wall lined with packages and boxes awaiting pickup by their intended recipients.

The shopkeeper turns to follow the tall man's line of sight, focused as it is on a small wire container balanced on a tower of large boxes.

"Oh, that!" The old man chuckles and turns back to his task. "Your neighbor's young wife likes to order stuff off the internet. And the old fool just lets her. Last week she got a shipment of ladybugs. For her garden she says. Hundreds of them crawling around in a mesh baggie of some sort."

He shutters as he rips the receipt from the pad. "Like we don't have enough bugs of our own around here."

But his audience of one is still solely focused on the boxes lining the wall. So he glances around again, wondering what is so fascinating about the creature in the cage. Turning back to John, he hands the receipt to the silent man.

"Pretty little thing, isn't it? Came in a kind of ventilated box. Poor thing was scared to death, so I put it in one of the smaller chicken pens." Studying the entranced man before him he continues, "Never seen one like that around here. Wonder what it is…"

Reese continues to stare at the cage, watching the small bird hop from one side to the other, feathers the color of ripened wheat outlining smooth black wings, its darkly coifed head turning this way and that, black beady eyes flitting about as it takes in its surroundings.

And suddenly he feels despair stealing over him again...despair he's been fighting for the better part of a year now...

He replies softly, "It's a finch…"

...

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

"_They have to figure out how to defeat an angry God, while continuing to help people, one person at a time, somewhere in New York." – Nolan_

NOTE: So here is my "deus ex machina" (plot device) in getting Reese back to NYC where he belongs…!

(No beta this time, so now I have to own all my mistakes! )

* * *

Chapter 2

3 MONTHS LATER…

"Now listen carefully! I'm only going to say this once: go home! And if I ever have to do this again, you will not be going home...you'll be going to the ER. Understand?"

Reese tightens his grip on the young male, fingers digging into the twenty-something year old neck for emphasis. His captive audience is finally all attention, swiftly sobering to the sound of the menacing whisper in his ear as he nods his comprehension vigorously.

"Yeah, man. Wha' ev'r ya shay…"

The ex-op moves his hand from the sweaty neck and places it companionably around the younger man's shoulders as though walking his best friend to the door. It's important to make the bounce look other than it is because while most drunken, self-aggrandizing assholes will leave peacefully, he knows it's their equally drunken buddies who deciding to play hero and intervene, can cause major problems.

Fortunately he'd been able to ambush his prey as the boozed up bozo exited the men's restroom so that the buddies in question were unaware of the collar. Without backup or encouragement to resist, this particular quarry now offers no opposition, being sufficiently intimidated to allow himself to be led outside without any further trouble.

Post a win for the bouncer…!

Reese assists the young man to the sidewalk, then steps back into the doorway to observe the male stagger to a flashy look-at-me car, its color alternating from fire engine red to dark maroon in concert to the blinking lights of the _Brews_ sign. Of course. It wouldn't be sensible model, like a Taurus or Malibu…

"Jeremy! You're an idiot, you know that?" yells the driver, rolling down the window of the low-slung car. "And this is the last time we go out with that bunch of Neanderthals!"

Well, what do you know! The girl actually has a decent vocabulary, given that she's managed two entire sentences without using a single expletive. And she's reasonably sober. Who would have thought?

He watches the young driver, her waterfall of blond hair flashing two-tone in sync with the car, as she exits the driver's side and helps fold the wobbly male into the passenger seat. Girl friend…sister...wife? Whatever the relation, the young lady had enough smarts to ask him for assistance when the "I-don't-take-orders-from-you" idiot became rowdy and obnoxious, refusing to leave the bar.

At least she's the one driving…and hopefully giving her passenger an earful. Reese turns around and absently cracking his knuckles, enters the crowded establishment once more.

It's Friday night and as per usual the place is filled with drunken, often drugged-up jerks trying to impress equally drunk, often stoned women - all set to tribal beat electronic music, epilepsy-inducing lighting, and a odor to rival a homeless convention hosted in a brewery.

An environment that practically begs for atavistic behavior.

The club is alive with activity with the only relative calm at the back of the building near the restrooms. Three dusty pool tables, the only reminder of the clubs history, squat desolately against the back wall eating up valuable space. Evidence that what had been a popular billiards pub attracting a young, upscale 80's crowd, had long ago morphed - along with the neighborhood - into something quite different.

The pub/club still attracts a young crowd, but the main area once filled with patrons in Girbaud jeans and fake tattoos playing endless games of pick-up pool, is now a well populated dance floor in the service of a much more frenetic, uninhibited clientele. Some still in designer jeans…Baldwins the jean of choice…but now the tattoos are real, and it's a far less restrained crowd.

A crowd that justifies his salary.

Reese removes the remaining plug from his ear as he walks back to the bar.

"Yo, bro. Wha's up?"

Big Bob meticulously wipes down a water bottle before handing it to him. The male is a mountain of muscle and bone, topped by a bald head so shiny strobe lights practically skitter off the taut skin. A real chrome dome. The club's standard black t-shirt uniform shows off the massive arms of a MMA participant, a sport Reese knows the guy follows with the constancy of a groupie.

Personally he thought the huge man to be physically better suited to being a bouncer than a barkeep, but he'd determined quickly that Big Bob didn't like confrontations unless within the parameters of organized sports. All that mass seemingly protects a rather timid personality…and a mild case of OCD.

The ex-op had formed an easy alliance with the bartender after they'd had to tag-team - with the barkeep a reluctant participant - a particularly aggressive patron. And since the bigger man never reveals private information and never asks personal questions, their loose association suits Reese just fine. He's not there to make friends. Big Bob will have his back when required, and that's all that's needed.

"Well," he replies, after taking a swallow, "In the last four hours I've dumped five drunks, confiscated two bags of ketamine, a bag of MDMA and got a $100 offer for some…um…personal service…from a loser sniffing lines in the men's restroom." He lifts the bottle to his lips again. "Just your typical evening."

"Yeah. The place is like a war zone, and getting worse." Big Bob looks up from readjusting the position of the beer glasses to survey the crowd. The majority of patrons are now on the dance floor, gyrating enthusiastically to the week's current dance tune, strobe lights spotlighting sections of human anatomy like a medical tutorial.

Reese follows Big Bob's gaze. A war zone - and he a willing combatant in a job classified under janitorial staff for employment purposes.

__How the mighty have fallen; ___the weapons of war have perished._

Thank you Root..!

He takes another swallow. "What's with that music? If you can call it that…" "Hey bro!" the big guy counters with a grin. "Get with the pro! That beat's been on the top of the charts for weeks. It's called _Turn Down For What_ by DJ Snake &amp; Lil Jon." He wipes a non-existent spill from the already spotless counter. "It's an epic dance tune!" "I'll take your word for it. Sounds more like a giant moron hammering an endless nail." He hands the bottle back to Big Bob and starts to replace the ear plugs. He may have to work a war zone, but he's not going to sacrifice his hearing for a job.

"John! My office. Now!"

The command comes from a suited male beyond the first set of tables, urgently waving his hand. With a sympathetic grin Big Bob moves away to fill an order, leaving the ex-op to deal. Great. Like this night couldn't get any better…a summons from the proprietor of this fine establishment, Gabe's eldest son!

Reese grimaces and drops the ear plugs into his pocket. And as he follows his boss to the back of the club, his thoughts travel back along the road that brought him here…

….

He'd been prepared to thoroughly dislike the old man's off-spring, but he'd had to reluctantly give them the benefit of the doubt when all three turned up at the ranch within 24 hours of being informed their father had suffered an unexpected and fatal heart attack. With the girl in tears and her two brothers stoically grim faced, Reese had to admit their grief seemed genuine.

As can be expected in most small towns, the funeral was well attended with neighbors and friends - and probably a few enemies - all showing up for a grave side ceremony. Reese hung out well to the back, out of sight and hopefully out of mind, self-preservation calling for a low profile and staying as far under radar as possible.

But Gabe hadn't been two days in the ground before the old man's family members, accompanied by a big city estate lawyer, were signing papers that would initiate the transfer of ownership of the entire ranch to a well known developer. And Reese was set adrift once more, as Gabe had left everything to his three children with no provision for employees.

It wasn't all grim though. With the lawyer finally gone and as Gabe's grown children were making plans to return to their respective homes, he was offered three positions: one in security in NYC, one in a model agency in LA…and one in the daughter's bed.

He'd had no hesitation in turning down two of those offers, but with the thought of moving back to NYC an image had come to mind - of the library, Finch at his computer, Bear lying on the floor nearby, Shaw scowling at him - and the urge to get back to the Big Apple became overwhelming.

_We save people Mr. Reese. You save people…_

And he had to wonder if someone or something wasn't manipulating him once again. Because as tempting as it was, moving back to NYC meant giving in and assuming the identity Root had created for him…whether he liked it or not!

…..

"Look, I know it's a bitch to deal with these chicks when they're three sheets to the wind, but you gotta keep your distance! That redhead was all over you when I got here!"

His boss is seated at a large desk, leaving his employee standing as there are no other chairs in the room. It's an obvious bid for power opposite somebody a good 3 inches taller and in much better shape. It makes Reese smile, though inwardly, as the man is already a hair trigger away from firing him. And he needs the money.

_"___I offered you a job___, Mr. Reese; ___I never said it would be easy."__

This relationship with his employer has been an uneasy one from the start, the man not quite knowing what to make of him. And if the club's former bouncer hadn't left for greener pastures shortly before Gabe died, Reese knows he would likely never have been offered the job…because it had been apparent from the start that Gabe's son viewed all ranch hands as undereducated, lacking sophistication, and having more brawn than brain. In other words, ignorant red-necks.

As it was, his employer soon recognized that his new hire didn't fit in any of those categories, in addition to exhibiting fighting skills that went far beyond those taught in a martial arts class.

He's aware Gabe's son is more than puzzled – the man feels threatened. The club owner probably thought to have hired a junk yard dog; instead now has what he perceives is a far more dangerous wolf on his payroll…one that unfortunately, for some unfathomable reason, attracts these female patrons like chickens to corn.

"From now on you make sure they keep their hands off you! I want my security people on top of the game 100% of the time, you hear? I don't pay you to fool around with paying customers."

"Yes, sir," Reese replies meekly, forcing himself into the subservient role that will make his boss feel more at ease.

It's no use arguing that advances from the women are neither solicited nor desired. And that in many cases are offered only to piss off a boy friend or husband. Or on a dare from a gaggle of tipsy girl friends, as was the case with the redhead that prompted this rebuke.

He always remains calm and composed during those situations because the hardest part of the job is figuring out who is really drunk and who is just being stupid. The two are not handled identically.

Except in one circumstance: anyone making a grab at his crotch – drunk, stoned or sober - is someone he will escort out of the building quickly. It's an unfortunate testimony to the type of clientele Gabe's establishment attracts that he's prompted to take that action at least once per week!

But it's always more difficult to "handle" a female patron than a male. For one, if the situation escalates to the physical, he has to be very careful where to place his hands. Not only can his greater strength easily harm a female half his weight and height, but any inappropriate hand placement – even if accidental and unintended - can result in a harassment suit. And that would result in being sacked.

So in most such cases he simply picks up the offending female by the middle and bodily carries her outside, predictably to the cat-calls and wolf-whistles of the clubs remaining population. And the female's often vile comments.

"_You bastard! My boy friend (husband, brother, father, friend…) will kill you!" _

Yeah, and then there's always _that_ threat. One that so far has yet to pan out.

The merely stupid can be handled with more finesse. Usually a little humor and casual flirting will prevent the encounters from becoming hands-on. And more than once he's hinted at having a life partner to discourage the ladies from becoming amorous.

Which unfortunately doesn't always work…as when he goes from being viewed as a possible bed partner to a BFF.

_Ah, Finch. Working for you really was easier…!_

….

Reese puts up his collar, buttons the overcoat, and takes a deep breath. The air is crisp, and if not as clean as that in Big Sky country, it's certainly a sight better than the miasma of smoke and alcohol fumes he's been breathing during the last ten hours. Its way past sunrise, with sunlight cresting the surrounding ridge of tall buildings, brightening the streets with each tick of the clock.

He'd been late in leaving the club, having agreed to help Big Bob with an inventory count - which took far longer than necessary, as the big man insisted on wiping down every bottle counted. And now, finally, another day in his new life has begun. He's adapted easily to this change in lifestyle, just as he's had to do in the past; that was after all, a requirement of working in the CIA.

But how long is it going to take before he stops measuring everything by what he's left behind?

Walking the length of the sidewalk toward the corner he tries to ignore his aching head. And his clothes, which smell like they've been used to wipe the bar. Which means he has to either spend precious funds to have them professionally cleaned or air out the wardrobe in front of the one and only open window in his tiny apartment. With his limited resources there's really no choice.

It's a six block walk to the efficiency but he welcomes the distance, not so much for the physical exercise – he's had enough of that during his shift – but to exorcise the evening's experiences from his head. All those youngsters, spending their time and energy and money on liquor and drugs, partying like there are no tomorrows…and never realizing, never wanting to, that their existence as they know it can end in a heartbeat.

_People ___want to be protected___; ___they just don't want to know how___…_

He's walked several blocks when that old familiar sensation crawls across the back of his neck. He's picked up a tail! Adrenaline flows and without breaking stride he starts evasive maneuvers, crossing streets and turning corners. He thinks about slipping into a shop to check on his shadow, but that means walking another full block.

So he does the next best thing: wedges himself into a shallow doorway and waits for whoever is following to show up. It doesn't take long…and suddenly he's face to face with his stalker.

An unexpected stalker..!

Instantly down on one knee, he throws his arms around the squirming body, allowing his face to be licked and all the while murmuring a litany of incomprehensible words that betray how much he's missed this. The animal is ecstatic, almost yelping with joy and completely unable to stand still.

"Oh, thank you for catching him! I don't why, but he's been pulling me for blocks and then suddenly took off. And the leash just slipped through my fingers!" A young woman runs up, breathing heavily, her flushed face and harried expression the result of what had evidently been a hectic chase. "Does he know you? I've never seen him act like that with a stranger before…"

Reese stands, the dog at his side sporting a happy grin, the animal's attention solely focused on the tall man.

"I just have that effect on dogs - they always seem to like me," he lies effortlessly, as he reluctantly hands her the leash. And in a tightly controlled voice says, "Here. You better take your dog…home."

"Oh, he doesn't belong to me. I'm just walking him for a friend."

"A…friend…"

Young and naïve, she doesn't catch his change in expression. For which he's truly thankful, knowing he was unable to control his reaction.

"He's handicapped and doesn't walk that well, so I try to help him out with his dog, especially on the weekends." she says. She glances worriedly at her watch. "And I'd better get back before he starts wondering what happened to us."

With that she tightens the leash, but the dog sends her a confused glance and instead of following, drops into a sit. "Come now! We need to go…!" she urges, tugging the leash again.

Reese glances down and lowers himself to the canine's level once more. With hands on either side of the animal's head, he leans in and whispers - then rises, the dog following suit and standing again, much to the girl's relief.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing important… But hurry, the light just changed," he responds.

With another quick 'thank you', she moves across the street at a brisk pace, her dark pony tail swinging in sync to her energetic walk, the dog reluctantly following after giving the tall man one final, mournful glance.

Reese watches until the girl is out of sight – taking with her the canine partner that is no longer a part of his existence. This is his new life now, another life, filled with different people.

He sighs.

_Everything is changing. I don't know if it will ever get better…but it's going to get worse._

And he rubs the tight spot on his chest, fighting off the sorrow that always hovers just below the surface...

End


End file.
